Sally weaves around another writhing pile of tanned young flesh and peers at the track. She doesn’t remember, but Dad told her Derby used to be different: the pomp was for the racers and their owners in the stands; the Infield was a bizarre sideshow.

When did that reverse, Sally wonders. When mint finally went extinct? When the jockeys first suited up in holographic ads?

She turns to the lawn, where two clown-strippers are riding a mechanical bull for hoots and thrown money. Behind her, brushed aluminum horses piston toward the starting gate.